fourth year julia mun

“Have you eaten? Do you want to come over for dinner? We could make something together.”

I stared at that message for a while. Many years had passed since the last time we had “cooked.” I stared at you from the corner of your kitchen while you drained the noodles with one hand and effortlessly mixed garlic and butter with the other. I still remember the smell of tomatoes lingering while the sun was beginning to set.

I could barely cook. What would I make? A bowl of cereal?

But I went over anyway because I missed you.

I slipped my shoes off and entered. The light lit up a different kitchen from my memories. You placed a pot of water onto the stove, and I watched the salt sink to the bottom. You pulled out ingredients from the refrigerator, bustling with food. The counter stood as a fine line between us, and I was unsure how to cross.

My eyes strayed over to a loaf of bread. “Do you want me to cut that into slices?”

You nodded and said I could. The knife felt awkward in my hand as I separated the bread into uneven slices. I felt embarrassed about the crookedness, while you were right beside me, effortlessly stirring simmering alfredo sauce with sharp cajun seasoning—the pink shrimp coiling around the firm noodles.

You caught me staring, laughed, and starting telling me how to prepare the salad. I washed the lettuce. Added drops of cranberries and chopped walnuts. Mixed the dressing.

“See?” You said, “Now you can make it for me.”

I looked at the miserable leaves questionably, but we ate until we couldn’t anymore. When I went home under the moonlight, I wondered what I could make for you.

We started making more things together. Breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. The bread slices became a little more even. I made eggs here and there. I cleaned a lot of dishes.

I saw you in new lights of the day. I wonder if I did for you, as well?

The last time I came over for dinner before our final year of college began, we made omurice and donkatsu. I coated the pork in speckles of flour and panko, and poured vegetable oil into a large pan. I took the tiny skillet you kept in the corner of your now-familiar cupboard and circled an egg around the edge. The translucence grew darker into a bright yellow, a little moon.

We cupped the rice in our wet hands, molding shapes from nothing. And I felt full, not just from the warm, fresh food, but from the way we could nourish each other. I have never really expressed the love I have for you, but the years of our friendship seemed to manifest in a way that we both could know - through eating, through cooking together. To create something for you made me realize I could care for myself. It makes me glad to exist.

Have You Eaten?